Tales and Novels of J. de La Fontaine — Volume 14 eBook

HANS CARVEL’S RING

Hans Carvel took, when weak and
late in life;
A girl, with youth and beauteous charms
to wife;
And with her, num’rous troubles, cares
and fears;
For, scarcely one without the rest appears.
Bab (such her name, and daughter of a knight)
Was airy, buxom: formed for am’rous
fight.
Hans, holding jeers and cuckoldom in dread,
Would have his precious rib with caution
tread,
And nothing but the Bible e’er peruse;
All other books he daily would abuse;
Blamed secret visits; frowned at loose attire;
And censured ev’ry thing gallants
admire.
The dame, howe’er, was deaf to all
he said;
No preaching pleased but what to pleasure
led,
Which made the aged husband hold his tongue.
And wish for death, since all round went
wrong.
Some easy moments he perhaps might get;
A full detail in hist’ry’s page
is met.
One night, when company he’d had to
dine,
And pretty well was fill’d with gen’rous
wine,
Hans dreamed, as near his wife he snoring
lay,
The devil came his compliments to pay,
And having on his finger put a ring,
Said he, friend Hans, I know thou feel’st
a sting;
Thy trouble ’s great: I pity
much thy case;
Let but this ring, howe’er, thy finger
grace,
And while ’tis there I’ll answer
with my head,
that ne’er shall happen which is now
thy dread:
Hans, quite delighted, forced his finger
through;
You drunken beast, cried Bab, what would
you do?
To love’s devoirs quite lost, you
take no care,
And now have thrust your finger God knows
where!

THE HERMIT

When Venus and Hypocrisy
combine,
Oft pranks are played that show a deep design;
Men are but men, and friars full as weak:
I’m not by Envy moved these truths
to speak.
Have you a sister, daughter, pretty wife?
Beware the monks as you would guard your
life;
If in their snares a simple belle be caught:
The trap succeeds: to ruin she is brought.
To show that monks are knaves in Virtue’s
mask;
Pray read my tale:—­no other proof
I ask.

A
hermit, full of youth, was thought around,
A
saint, and worthy of the legend found.
The
holy man a knotted cincture wore;
But,
’neath his garb:—­heart-rotten to the
core.
A
chaplet from his twisted girdle hung,
Of
size extreme, and regularly strung,
On
t’other side was worn a little bell;
The
hypocrite in all, he acted well;
And
if a female near his cell appeared,
He’d
keep within as if the sex he feared,
With
downcast eyes and looks of woe complete,
You’d
ne’er suppose that butter he could eat.